


In Jezreel

by opalmatrix



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Closeted, Coming Out, Community: 7thnight_smut, Dark Past, Domestic, M/M, Slice of Life, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harrison and Kenton have been housemates for three years, Their relationship seems stuck in a rut, until one momentous autumn day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Jezreel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 edition of 7th Night, the annual Saiyuki Alternative Universe Gift!fic exchange. The recipient was **tanished_ink** (and hey, if you have an AO3 account, let me know, and I'll add the recipient info properly). The town described herein was inspired by Jerome, Arizona (USA), which I visited about a decade ago, but it's otherwise completely imaginary. Beta by **[smillaraaq](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Smillaraaq/)** and **[avierra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/avierra/)**.

The clock on the bedside table read 1:47. The room was very dark and a little chilly: perfect for sleeping. The little puffs of cold air that came and went would have waked Harrison up in any case, but the warm, wet mouth around his cock was really what had opened his eyes.

"Kenton?" he whispered. It was a rhetorical question. He knew that only his roommate would have awakened him this way. It had happened before, after all. The darkness hid the long, red hair, but he felt it brushing his thighs and belly. There was a distinct smell of cigarettes, beer, and Ken. Harrison reached out toward the mass that weighed down the mattress beside him and felt a wiry leg, a bony hip covered in cotton boxers, a flat belly. The skilled mouth sucked and licked, until Harrison was biting back a moan. He groped along Ken's abdomen and under the waistband of the boxers until his fingers found the other man's erection.

The suction on Harrison's member broke for a moment. "Hahhhh" Ken said, hot breath blowing on Harrison's damp skin.

"Don't stop," ordered Harrison, squeezing and stroking what he held.

The only response was an incoherent mumble against Harrison's heated flesh. The sweet suction began again, and one finger was teasing his anus. He was not going to last long, and he wondered how long Ken had been stroking and teasing him before he had become conscious. "I'm going to … ."

The finger pressed inside, hard, slick with saliva, perhaps. Three strokes, and Harrison groaned, coming hard. Ken just took it, but a moment later, Harrison heard him spitting. Harrison was drifting on a cloud of pleasure, so he didn't bother to worry where that mouthful of semen had ended up.

Ken was still hard in Harrison's slackened grasp. He pulled away abruptly. "What are you doing? Come back here," Harrison said.

Ken shifted around, nuzzling Harrison's chest through the cotton knit of his pajama shirt. Harrison reached down and found that Ken was stroking himself, the boxers pushed down around his thighs. "Let me help, at least," whispered Harrison, and put his hand over Ken's, squeezing hard as he followed his friend's rhythm. Suddenly Ken gasped against Harrison's breastbone. Harrison fancied he could feel the pulses of Ken's orgasm, transmitted through his hand to Harrison's, but perhaps that was his own blood pounding.

For a moment, Ken stayed where he was, boneless and heavy on and against Harrison. Then he sighed and shifted, easing his hand from Harrison's grasp, apparently pulling off his boxers and using them to wipe up the mess. He rolled over and stood up. Harrison reached out blindly and grasped a lean, muscled forearm.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

Ken made a sleepy, exasperated sound, somewhere between a huff and a growl. But to Harrison's surprise, he climbed back into bed. "Roll over," Ken said, his voice gruff and husky. Harrison turned on his other side, and Ken spooned up behind him. He was amazingly warm, and the pressure of his body against Harrison's back was soothing. Harrison was asleep in seconds.

Ken was still there in the morning, taking up most of the bed and snoring lightly. Harrison eased himself out without waking Ken and went to the bathroom to piss and take his shower, as usual. As he soaped himself up, he wondered what it meant that Ken hadn't slipped off to sleep on the sofa as usual after their intimate moments. They had been living together for almost three years and had first had sex last New Year's Eve, under the liberating influence of some very fine eggnog that Harrison had made with a recipe he found on the Internet.

The alarm clock showed almost 6:30 when Harrison returned to the bedroom to dress. The curtains were still closed, but morning light was filtering around them, picking out the details of the room that he thought of as his, although it had been Ken's when Harrison first came. Then it had been a morass of dirty clothes and tottering stacks of magazines and videos. Now, Ken's slumbering figure and the discarded boxers and t-shirt on the floor were the only untidy thing in the place.

The walls were painted a crisp white: Ken's handiwork, because although he had to be encouraged (and coaxed, and nagged) in everyday tidiness, he was actually a skilled man-of-all-work when it came to the building trade. He had also refinished the dresser in the far corner, so that its oak gleamed a soft golden brown, and Harrison had found the tall dresser in a very similar wood at an estate sale in Steamboat Springs. The cannonball four-poster bed was definitely Ken's, although Harrison was skeptical of Ken's tale of winning the bed in a card game. The rug was another estate sale find: an early 20th-century rag rug in russets and greens and cream, and the green, insulated curtains had been ordered to match it. The oak floor was of sanded, polished planks where the rug did not cover. There was a tall mirror on one of the closet doors: two spacious closets, created a couple of decades ago by walling off three feet from one end of the room, which had been built in an era when people used wardrobes to hang their few items of clothing.

The only modern notes were the bookcase, where Harrison's collection of novels and poetry books rubbed shoulders with Ken's comic book collection, mostly sorted into magazine filing boxes, and the art on the walls. Harrison had not had the heart to forbid Ken from putting up a picture of a coyly buxom World War II pinup girl that he'd found at the sale that produced the rug, and Harrison had attempted to counteract it with a black-and-white landscape photo that _might_ be a genuine Ansel Adams.

Ken had turned on his side, still deeply asleep — and no wonder, thought Harrison, if he had been out drinking until past 1:00 in the morning. It was unlike him to do so on a week night.

Harrison dressed slowly, watching Ken sleep. He had come to love the angular, vividly handsome face with its strong features: generous mouth, strong chin, straight nose, high cheekbones marred on one side with old scars, tanned skin. Those eyes, with their outrageously long lashes, were a startling blue. Ken's auburn hair was long, loose and tangled now but usually tied back in a ponytail for work. His large, long-fingered hands were strong, calloused on the palms, but dexterous and gentle when he wanted them to be.

For a moment, Harrison thought of another face, another body: a face that in many ways mirrored his own but seemingly drawn with a finer brush, a small body with rounded, feminine curves. That was the only person he had ever loved.

The only _other_ person he had ever loved?

There was no point in thinking that now. Whatever drew him and Ken together had to be purely physical. Ken had cut a swath through the young women of Jezreel and the nearby towns before Harrison had arrived. That neither pregnancy nor disease had been the result was nothing but good luck and perhaps the kindness of Heaven — except that Harrison had no reason to believe that such a thing existed. Human kindness, on the other hand, was found right here, in this small house, with its avatar sleeping this morning in Harrison's bed.

And that Harrison could possibly be the reason for Ken's seemingly growing continence was not a notion that either of them wanted to have occur to anyone here. Harrison turned his thoughts from this idea with an effort almost physical and finished dressing. Then he walked quietly from the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him, carrying his shoes in one hand.

The house had originally consisted of four small rooms opening onto a breezeway, a design that had become less desirable every winter. During the 1940s, the breezeway had been enclosed and a bathroom built in the back end of it. The house had been wired for electricity shortly thereafter, and in the 1970s, the two front rooms and the breezeway-turned-hallway had been opened up to each other, making a large, comfortable space with a kitchen at one end and a fireplace at the other. The lean-to that had been added to the side of the house in the 1920s to store firewood and kerosene was now a mudroom and entryway for the side door. The two remaining original rooms were the bedroom and the storeroom, which now also contained Harrison's home office. 

The front room sofa that usually served as Ken's bed was still tidily made up, waiting for him. Harrison set up the coffeemaker and then put the bedding away in the old steamer trunk that also served as an end table. He stepped out onto the front porch and found the daily paper, delivered every morning by young Seth Jamison, and assessed the weather: clear and bright after the soaking rainstorm that had blown through yesterday. Returning to the kitchen, he put together a simple breakfast: granola, fruit, and milk, with a glass of orange juice. The coffee was ready, so he poured a cup, laid himself a place with a patchwork mat, and sat down at the polished table to eat and brood over the news. 

It was peaceful here in the early morning, with the bright early autumn sun washing over the linoleum that Ken had laid in the kitchen and the polished wood of the floor in the rest of the room. A pair of leather club chairs that Harrison had bargained for at the sale of the goods from a failed ski resort up the mountain road bracketed the space between the stone hearth and the sofa, with a low, rustic coffee table between them all. The fireplace's competition, a large television, had its own cabinet, filled also with a game system and a large collection of dubious videos that Ken watched only occasionally these days. A patchworked but effective sound system was tucked in beside it.

The dining table had four chairs with dark green cushions, and striped green curtains hung at the kitchen windows. The wall art was an eclectic collection of snowy landscape pieces salvaged from the same failed resort, some antique maps of the region, and a couple of botanical prints in the dining area. The kitchen cabinetry was painted a shiny white, with cheery red handles and knobs, and the counter was part granite, part butcher block,

Harrison finished eating, rinsed and stacked his dishes in the sink, and retreated to the office. He still had quizzes to mark before he was due at school to teach science classes. Working only part time meant that he needn't have an education degree. It also meant that the school had an excuse to ignore his criminal record.

He was just packing the papers into his briefcase when he heard Ken get up and use the bathroom. The water ran for a moment, and then Ken said, distinctly, "Oh, shit!"

"What's the matter?" asked Harrison.

"It's already almost 8:00. Damn."

"You have a job today?"

"Bellcove wants me t' help some lady hang wallpaper at 9:00, over at the end of Fresh Spring. Then after lunch, I got some framing for an addition down by Milner."

"Just hop in the shower. I'll make you some breakfast. What about lunch?"

"Maggie's Diner in Milner is good."

"It's your money. But what if the wallpapering runs late?"

"Then I got some jerky and crackers with me."

Harrison shuddered, but there was a limit to how much he could parent Ken. "Get washed."

He heard the shower start up. Past experience told him that he could spare two minutes to run his eye down the grade records for his Basic Biology class. There: now he could call it a job well done.

He double-checked the stack of papers and slipped it into his briefcase, then locked his desk and went out to make Ken breakfast. Everything was near at hand: a mashed potato cake left over from supper two nights ago, sausage patties, eggs. He started a fresh pot of coffee, put on the skillet, and added the sausage. As the fat rendered out, he tossed in the potato cake and flipped it a few times. The coffee was dribbling out into the pot now, sending up fragrant steam. Harrison cracked two eggs into a bowl, then poured them gently into the hot fat in the skillet. Leaving them to cook, he set a place for Ken and poured him a glass of juice. The shower was off now, and he could hear Ken rummaging around in the bedroom.

"Coffee's on," he called. He slipped the contents of the skillet onto a plate and set it on Ken's placemat. Ken walked in just as Harrison was pouring the coffee.

"Wow," said Ken, surveying the breakfast. "You spoil me so much, Hal. What did I do to deserve — ?"

Harrison opened his mouth, then shut it again. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, then Ken looked away, flushing. He sat down without meeting Harrison's eyes and started shoveling food into his mouth as though his life depended on it. Harrison bit his lip then poured himself another cup of coffee. He didn't need it, but it made an excuse to sit down.

"No need to rush," he said, easily. Funny how much effort it took to sound that way. "You have plenty of time."

Ken did not look up, but he slowed down. Finally, he downed his juice in one gulp. "Great breakfast," he said, apparently to his plate. "I better get going."

Harrison set down his mug and reached for Ken's dishes. Ken grabbed his wrist. "Hey. I promise I won't be so late tonight, OK?"

Their eyes met. Harrison let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "I'm just worried about your getting enough sleep, you know. Your work can be dangerous."

"What about you, teaching those little monsters at the school?" Kenton grinned, and the awkwardness passed. He wiped his hands, grabbed his toolbox, and went out to get his motorcycle. Harrison heard its throaty roar start up as he carried the dishes to the sink and started washing them. Sunlight flickered on the soapsuds as the branches of the cottonwood trees outside swayed in the breeze. It was a lovely autumn morning: just another day in Jezreel.

* * *

Hal shouldn't have worried, thought Kenton. The paper-hanging job finished just past noon. The client was named Stacy Rosen, a tall, scrawny lady with a surprising amount of muscle who was actually pretty good at building stuff. She was a stone sculptor. That wasn't too shocking: more and more artists were moving into Jezreel, taking over the broken-down houses left from the town's mining days. Ken knew of five painters, two photographers, four potters, a fiber artist (he spun yarn and thread and wove stuff out of it), and now two sculptors. The town was on the map for real again, and the two bed and breakfast places had been sold out all summer, and there was talk of another one opening up, and maybe a little boutique hotel in the old Jezreel Mining Company building. That was fine with Kenton: it meant more jobs and more money for him and the rest of the Bellcove Builders crew.

Ms. Rosen pressed a ten-buck tip into his hand and waved him off, clearly dying to go back to her studio where she was carving a block of stone into some kind of dinosaur or maybe a dragon; it was hard to tell. Ken watched her back view appreciatively as she went back inside. He always appreciated a nice ass. This lady might be pushing forty, but she was in good shape.

He climbed onto on his bike and tooled up Fresh Spring Road back to the center of town. He stopped at the corner of Second and Main, in front of Peace Church, considering his options. It was early yet. It would only take him half an hour to get to Milner, and then he could take his time at Maggie's. Or maybe he should just save the money and grab a sandwich at home. That would make Hal happy, and then they could blow the money together Friday night on a couple of drinks at Bear Valley Lodge outside of Steamboat Springs.

"Yo, K.T.! Are you deaf now, or something?"

Ken froze. He hadn't ever expected to hear that voice in this town again. An old beater, maroon with a white top, was stopped on the other side of the intersection. A sharp face half hidden by a pair of painfully hip shades and topped with a blond buzz cut was peering out of the driver's window. "Benjy?" said Ken, reluctantly

"The one and only. Come over here and say hi to your old pal, won't ya?"

Cursing to himself, Ken kicked the bike into motion and brought it alongside Benjy's beat-up sedan. "If we hang out here long enough, Officer Garza's gonna come along and issue us both a warning."

"That hick cop? Like I care."

"What the hell're you doing back in town, Benjy?"

"That's all you have to say to an old pal? And here I was gonna cut you in on a piece of real profitable business."

Ken's gut twisted. The last time he'd bought into one of Benjy's schemes, he'd ended up beaten within an inch of his life and left for dead in an abandoned building five miles outside of Milner. "You come to town lookin' for me?"

"Not especially. But then I saw you at the stop and thought, hey, there's a guy I know can get a job done: my old pal K.T."

"Oh, stop, you're gonna give me a sugar rush. And the answer is no. I got a good job, all the money I need. You check out this bike? Bought and paid for, Benjy baby."

Benjy gave him a hard look that melted into a too-sweet smile with an edge that could cut glass. "You're still shacked up with that uptight science teacher, right? I hear you're working for old man Bellcove?"

"Yeah, I am. What about it?"

"Some pretty tough guys working for Bellcove. Real straight and narrow, too. Marine Corps vets and all." Benjy's voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "What would they say if they knew how good you were at suckin' cock, Kenny baby?"

Ken's gut dropped right into the soles of his boots, but he kept it off his face. "Yeah? And what would your new pals say if they knew how much you liked it, Mr. Benjamin Lee? I remember you begging and moaning. 'Oh, K.T., you're the best!'"

All the leering cheer dropped right off Benjy's little rat face. "Yeah, and that's pretty much all you were good for, too: stupid little half-breed asshole fresh off the reservation. You could barely read and write."

"Huh. Five minutes ago you were talkin' about how you could count on me. Which one is it, you jackass? And it's a quarter breed, if you're gonna be picky about that shit."

"Forget all that. And if you know what's good for you, forget I ever talked to you today."

"Nothin' would make me happier, you jerkwad."

"One more thing, little man: you know your schoolteacher has a record, right?"

"Yeah, I do, and I know what for. I hope I'd be gutsy enough to have done the same, in his shoes. So don't mess with him: he's still the same guy who cut those bastards down. Don't you think he's not."

Benjy scowled, then got out his shit-eating grin again. "So good to know someone's looking after your cute little ass, K.T. Stay straight then, puppy dog." He gunned the ragged engine of his old junk heap and peeled out across the intersection, spraying Ken with dust and gravel as he went. Kent cursed and started beating the mess out of his jeans. Looked like he'd be grabbing a sandwich at home after all, after wasting time talking to that shitbag.

"What did _he_ want?"

Crap. Pastor Corey Sanders. He must have been watching from the church. This day was just getting better and better. "Just flapping his big mouth. He should know I wouldn't run with him again."

"Was he asking you to?"

"It's none of your goddamn business, holy man!" But even as he said it, Ken knew that it wasn't true, strictly speaking. Hal had been a total mess when he'd first showed up in Jezreel three years ago. Corey had helped Ken put him back together. If Corey hadn't been talking to Hal almost every day, showing him how to meditate and giving him philosophy stuff to read, Hal wouldn't have been able to take what Ken had to offer. He scowled at Corey, and the minister glared back. He had the face of an angel from a church painting, if an angel could look grumpy all the time. "Yeah, he's got some shit going," said Ken, at last. "Said he'd cut me in if I helped. I told him to take a hike."

"Good to know that Harrison hasn't been wasting his time after all."

"Shut up, you!"

Corey ignored this, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up. Typical. He knew damn well that Hal had made Ken quite smoking last year. Corey blew out a stream of smoke, not quite in Ken's direction. "Garza told me that a state trooper named Douglas Curtis was asking about Lee. He's been interviewing people around town. You should look him up, tell him what Lee told you."

"I ain't got time for that. I got to get to a job down in Milner, and I need to grab lunch first."

Corey raised his eyebrows. "Well, I'll have to tell Sergeant Curtis what I just saw. When he shows up at your house this evening, you'll simply have to deal with it. And so will Harrison."

"You're too goddamn mean to be a preacher man, you know that?"

Corey didn't even bother to glare back. He turned and strolled back to the church, where Gil Santos was waiting for him, probably working on repairing the salvaged pews Cal Carrington had trucked in last week. Gil waved at Ken, and Ken waved back half-heartedly. Gil was a good kid, even if he _was_ as dumb as a box of rocks, but the crush he had on Corey was painful to see, and obvious to everyone but the pastor.

Or maybe not. Wouldn't somebody have said something about it? Despite all the new artistic business, this wasn't a town where you could just walk around being gay for someone, like they were in Massachusetts or someplace. It wasn't that long since that Shepherd kid had been killed down in Texas.

Damn. Look at the time. If he hurried, he could slap together a sandwich at home and get down to the building site at Milner. Life really sucked some days.

* * *

That afternoon, when the sixth class period had let out, the sun was beating down strongly enough for Harrison to shed his jacket on his way to the Jeep. He didn't have staff parking privileges, so he always ended up in the far corner of the lot, next to the upperclassmen's motley collection of vehicles: half a dozen beat-up former family sedans mixed with one shiny new cheap compact and a hulking middle-aged almost-cool SUV bought with after-school job money. He had almost reached his vehicle when he realized that there was a state patrol car parked next to it. The police car contained a large German shepherd dog and an even larger man.

The trooper unfolded himself from the front seat as Harrison approached, tipping his Smokey Bear hat politely. "Good afternoon, Mr. Chant."

He had a pleasant, deep voice that sounded vaguely familiar, broad shoulders, tawny skin, and facial features that argued Native American or perhaps Latino ancestry. He was a couple of inches taller than Harrison: taller even than Ken. "Good afternoon, officer," replied Harrison, equally polite. 

"I'm Sergeant Douglas Curtis, and I'm on a case that seems to point to some individuals here in Jezreel," said the trooper, holding out an ID. Harrison studied the card: it seemed legitimate, but how would he know?

"How may I help you, Sergeant Curtis?" Harrison said at last.

"Would you mind if Drake and I had a look at your vehicle?" Curtis indicated the dog.

"Not at all," replied Harrison, wondering whether the man really imagined that he brought drugs to school.

Curtis let the dog out of the car, grabbing the leash as the big animal bounded onto the dusty pavement. The two circled the jeep slowly. Curtis turned to Harrison. "Can you open it up for us, Mr. Chant?"

Harrison was beginning to get a little irritated. He had committed many sins, but dealing in illegal drugs was not one of them. However, he simply nodded and opened the driver's side door. Curtis poked his head inside and looked around, then opened the rear door and let Drake jump inside and nose the seats and the floor.

"OK, good enough," said Curtis, at last. "Thanks. Do you know a Benjamin Lee?"

Harrison's vision seemed to narrow, and he knew that Curtis would have noticed his reaction. "I know who he is, yes."

"Not a friend, then, Mr. Chant?"

"I should say not. I don't know to whom you've been speaking —"

"Officer Kody Garza, Jezreel police."

"Then you know that I share a house with a man named Kenton Tanner, who was beaten and nearly killed by Lee and his confederates last year."

"You'd know Lee if you saw him?"

"I would never forget his face, much as I would like to."

"Would you mind coming along with me, then? I have information that says he's been seen north of town, in a house formerly thought to be abandoned."

"The McLeod place?" It made all too much sense. That was where Lee and Ken had lived as squatters, when Kenton was still just a big kid and long before Harrison ever arrived in Jezreel. Ken had pointed out the place from the road once, when they had gone north to Yellowstone.

"Yeah, that's it, Mr. Chant. I just want to get a positive I.D. There's a spot where we can watch the house for a short while. He comes and goes pretty regular."

"Is he by himself?"

"Not always. But we've only seen the same people with him once or twice, and he seems to be the only one staying there. So we guess customers are coming and going, and Lee's running the shop mostly on his own."

Harrison hesitated, but the truth was, he was only too happy to be able to do something that might lead to Lee's being brought to justice, after no one would testify to the incident with Kenton. "Would it take long? I have a tutoring session at 4:30, back in town."

"At a guess, I'll have you back here at your car by 4:00 or so at the outside," promised Sergeant Curtis.

"Well, then, we'd best be on the road. Just give me a moment to lock my briefcase up."

The trooper opened the rear door of his patrol car to let his dog leap into the back, then popped the passenger door for Harrison. "Buckle up," he said and reached for his radio: "Calling Garza; Garza, please respond."

"That you, Doug?" Garza's voice was tinny and a bit distorted on the radio.

"The same. Got Chant with me; going up to the McLeod place, see if he can make the ID."

"I copy. The pastor says Tanner had to be at a job out of town; good thing you got Chant."

"Yup. I'll check in about 4:00."

"Got it."

Curtis set the mic back into its bracket and started the car. "I guess your buddy had to take care of something urgent?"

Harrison settled back into his seat, unexpectedly disturbed by the idea of Ken's being questioned by the police. "Well, his employer values his time. And if Ken doesn't work, he doesn't get paid. He told me he had a job down in Milner this afternoon. Did Reverend Sanders know the police wanted to talk to Ken?"

"Dunno." They took the Elk Creek highway north. The land grew steeper and the vegetation more lush as they gained altitude. The first big curve showed Harrison the entire town of Jezreel, perched on its rise above Elk Creek in its valley. Peace Church with its steeple and their own little house were easy to spot. It was amazing how much he'd come to love the place, even though he was sure the townspeople would never understand what he was.

After a few more miles, Jezreel was hidden behind the shoulder of the mountains. "Almost there," said Curtis. "There's a pull-off where I can hide the car behind some scrub."

"The house is just ahead, isn't it?"

"Yeah, right … ."

And then the mountain fell on them.

Harrison opened his eyes. The car was on its side, the rear quarter buried in earth and rock, the nose pointed down the embankment. Drake whimpered from the back seat. There was no sound from Sergeant Curtis.

A landslide, thought Harrison: all that rain we had yesterday and last night. "Sergeant?"

There was no reply.

Harrison squirmed in his seat, bruised muscles protesting, and managed to undo his seatbelt and not fall on top of Curtis. He squeezed the trooper's arm. "Curtis? Douglas?"

The man seemed to be breathing. It looked like he had struck his head against the door window. His neck and back seemed to be at reasonable if not entirely comfortable angles. Harrison braced his feet against the center console and managed to get the passenger side door open. The car was held firmly by the weight that had fallen on it: it barely moved as he maneuvered. He stood, half out of the vehicle, and looked around.

They were shaded, at least: the defile below the road was heavily wooded with pine and spruce. Harrison crouched back into the car and tried the radio. Nothing happened when he flicked switches and pressed buttons. Apparently there had been damage to the power supply.

He had to find help.

He stood again and hoisted himself up out of the car. Drake whined at him. "Stay," Harrison ordered, in the voice he used for commanding recalcitrant adolescents. The dog climbed into the front seat and lay down against Curtis' side and legs. "Good dog," said Harrison. He found a large, broken tree limb nearby and used it to prop the door open, so that man and dog would have fresh air. Then he staggered up the steep slope to the road.

Once he reached the pavement, it was clear that the road was completely blocked and that he would not be able to climb over the debris without serious risk of falling down the steep road cut. The only way was up: toward the McLeod place.

Maybe the house will be empty and I can sneak in and use the phone, he thought. I could even break a window, if necessary.

He staggered up the road. The walk loosened his muscles a bit, although he was definitely still limping as he rounded the next bend and saw the old house standing amidst trees and young scrub. Jacob McLeod had cleared the yard around the place seventy years ago, but no one had kept it up for the last twenty, at least. It looked abandoned, but although Harrison was no police officer, he could easily imagine that it would be to Lee's advantage that the place look abandoned even when he was in residence. Harrison climbed the uphill slope at the side of the road and did his best to approach the house under cover.

The back door had a little porch over it, and a window to one side. If the place had been openly occupied, containers of propane or water might have been stored there. Did the place have a well? He didn't know. He crept up to the window and peered in.

Predictably, there was a shade drawn on the other side. Harrison sighed and went to the door. There was a new-looking deadbolt above the doorknob. He tried the knob anyway, and to his surprise, it turned. He pulled, and the door came open.

The room behind was a grimy kitchen. He could smell recently cooked food, and garbage that was not taken out as often as it should be. He stepped into the place and eased the door shut behind him. A doorway led out of the kitchen, into the center of the house. He walked that way slowly, trying to make his footfalls as quiet as possible.

Beyond the doorway was what must be the main room of the place. Now Harrison could smell other things: cigarettes, a vague odor of cat urine, a whiff of sulfur, a sweetish chemical odor that might be cheap air freshener. The plaid curtains were drawn on what was likely a big picture window looking down the side of the mountain, and there was a scruffy sofa accompanied by a battered coffee table covered with stacks of newspapers and magazines, along with an overflowing ash tray.

"Freeze, you freak," said a familiar voice.

Oh well, thought Harrison. I tried.

Lee was armed with a pistol of some sort. He looked Harrison over and grinned unpleasantly. "Well, well, if it isn't K.T.'s squeeze toy."

"I'm not interested in what you're doing here," said Harrison, and he was surprised at how cold and steady his voice was. "The car I was in was hit by a landslide. The driver is injured. I just wanted to borrow a phone to call for help."

"As if," said Lee. He raised his voice. "Diaz! Creep says there's a car stuck in the landslide! Check it out!"

"Got it!" shouted the other, whoever he was. Lee looked Harrison over and grinned. It was not a pleasant expression.

"Just sit yourself down in that chair, Teach. No, not that one: the wooden one. Keep your hands in plain sight. Your boy toy insists you're a real dangerous guy. What a piece of luck, right? Here I was, just talkin' to my boy K.T. a couple of hours ago, trying to get him in on my business here. You got him whipped, Teach. He used to be a real tough punk, and now all he wants to do is work like a stiff and go home to you. You must have the sweetest little ass in Colorado."

Harrison's gut was roiling with a burning mixture of disgust and anger. "When did you talk to Ken?"

"Ken!" mocked Lee. "Like the plastic doll, Teach? That makes you Barbie, right? I took a short cut through town right about lunchtime, and there was Red on his bike. But he wasn't interested. You got a lot to answer for, dude." 

Footsteps pounded toward the house outside. "Benjy! There's a state patrol car stuck in the landslide! Smokey's out cold inside, with a freakin' big K-9. Cap 'em?"

Lee's head turned back to Harrison slowly, like a snake getting ready to strike. "Whoa, Teach. You been holdin' out on me. You came up here with the law, huh?

Harrison's gut went from hot to cold. "He wanted me to I.D. you. Ironic, isn't it?"

The second man came in through the front door. He was short, dark-skinned, with shaggy dark hair and a mustache. "We gonna waste `em?" he asked.

"Why not?" said Lee, flatly. He raised his gun.

"Wait!" said Harrison.

"Why, Teach? You gonna sing and dance for us?"

"Have you killed anyone yet?"

"What the hell?"

"Is murder on your record? Do you want it there?"

Lee lowered the gun slightly. "Yeah, guess you'd know all about that rap, wouldn't ya? What kind of scheme you have in mind?"

"What if you hadn't been here when I found the house? What if I had simply broken in and used the phone?"

"So we should just run off? But whyn't we just cap you and then go? How's anyone gonna know we're the ones who did you? With the landslide, it'll be at least a day before anyone comes up and finds you. That's why you wanna make a call, right?"

"Because the state police were already pretty sure you were up here. Because just before we drove up here from the school, the trooper made a call and told whoever was on the other end that we were coming up here and that he'd check in by 4:00."

Lee was silent for a moment, then he checked his watch. "God fuckin' dammit, Teach. Way to leave out the most important part! Diaz, get some rope and tie Teach to that chair. We got to pack up as much shit as we can, stat!"

"You gonna do what he said, Benjy?"

"Somethin' sorta like that. Bring up the truck. Move it!"

Lee kept Harrison covered until Diaz had him thoroughly roped to the wooden chair. Then the two of them left him to go about their business, running back and forth through the room he was in. Plastic storage crates and cardboard cartons went first, some of them open at the top so that Harrison could see plastic jugs and coils of plastic tubing inside. Then the two men carried out a small refrigerator, and then a couple of camping coolers.

A methamphetamine lab? Harrison was not sure, but that would explain the interest of the state police.

After perhaps half an hour had gone by, Lee turned his attention to Harrison again. "Let's see ...," he said, and went around behind his captive. Harrison felt the ropes around his hands loosen very slightly.

"See, Teach, I'm not as much of a rat as you think. I used to take good care of K.T. when he was a little pup: did he tell you that? So I'm giving you a chance here. After I head out, you can probably get yourself untied and use the radiophone. It's right over there. See? Easy peasy. But don't take too long."

"Why? I should think you'd want as much of a head start as possible."

Lee gave him a sweet smile, like a crocodile trying to cajole a small child. "'Cause it's about to get a little hot in here. An occupational hazard of ours, you might say."

Harrison stared at him. Lee winked and pulled out a lighter. He walked into the room from which they'd been extracting the equipment. A moment later, Harrison smelled burning paper. Lee walked casually to the front door. "So long, Teach. Give K.T. a kiss for me, if ya see him again."

He strolled through the doorway and locked the door behind him, leaving Harrison alone with the smell and crackle of the fire behind him.

* * *

Ken was feeling pretty fine as he zoomed up the road back to Jezreel. He'd done a good afternoon's work on the site, an addition to an old house on the outskirts of Milner. It was going to be another studio, for a kids' book illustrator who'd won a bazillion awards. Artists liked to flock together, so K.T. figured this guy would eventually be worth half a year's salary for Bellcove. No one knew how to work with these old houses like the old man and his crew. And they'd finished up early, too.

There were police lights up ahead. Ken slowed down to the speed limit. It was Officer Garza in his cruiser, and when he saw Ken, he waved him over. Which was more than a little freaky, because Ken was sure he hadn't done anything illegal lately. Well, except for exceeding the speed limit, but no one got too snotty about that around Jezreel, when the road was empty. Not even His Highness Prince Garza, who had a stick up his ass pretty much permanently, the bossy pipsqueak. Ken couldn't imagine how they'd ever let such a short guy become a cop.

"Tanner," said Garza, very quietly.

"That's my name," said Ken, trying to sound friendly and cooperative. Garza was looking at Ken like he was sorry for him.

"We had a state police officer here, doing an investigation. He needed a bit of help from Mr. Chant."

"What the … ? What kind of help? You got your funeral face on, Garza. What happened?" 

"It was a simple perpetrator I.D. Benjamin Lee."

The noontime encounters with Benjy and the preacher came rushing back. "Dammit, Garza, learn how to tell a fuckin' story, would ya? _What happened?_ "

"Sergeant Curtis took Mr. Chant up the road to the old McLeod place, where Lee was suspected of engaging in illegal activity. There was a landslide across the road about 20 minutes after they set off. Smoke was seen less than an hour later, on the far side of the landslide … that was just a few minutes ago."

"The hell are we doin' just standin' here? Let's go!"

Garza shook his crewcut head. "Elk Creek Road is completely blocked, Tanner." Inside the cruiser, the radio crackled to life. Garza grabbed the mic. "Garza. What? You're kidding … yeah … yeah?" He listened for a couple of minutes. Finally: "Got you. Garza out."

It was all Ken could do not to grab the mic out of his hand. "What? _What?_ "

Garza looked up, a shadow of a smile on his usually stony face. "Your friend is quite a guy. The landslide knocked the patrol car off the road and flipped it on its side. Curtis was knocked unconscious, but Chant managed to get out of the car, got to the old McLeod place, broke in, and used a radiophone he found there to call for help."

The bike sagged against Ken's leg and woke him to the fact that he wasn't exactly paying attention to his surroundings. "Holy crap. You mean _Benjy's_ radiophone? Hal could've been killed! And wait, what was the smoke from? Did the car … ?"

"No. The house, apparently. But Chant got out of there, right after he made his call. And we have Medevac and police choppers heading in. They'll find out what happened and get the two of them to a hospital"

"Which one? Memorial? Down in Craig?"

"Probably, unless Curtis is so badly injured that they need to head into Denver instead."

"Shit. I wanna … ."

"Yes?"

Ken looked up. Garza was looking at him steadily. He was such an uptight smartass: everything that Benjy had accused Hal of being, actually. So maybe he wasn't really that, any more than Hal was. Ken swallowed. "I'd like to pick him up from the hospital."

Garza leaned his ass against the car and rubbed his hand over his face. For a moment he looked like Ken felt. "You wouldn't know … Curtis is a good friend of mine. I know where you're coming from. Why don't you go back to your place, pack a bag for the two of you in case you need stay overnight. Chant's Jeep is parked at the school; I'll give them a heads-up that you're leaving your bike in the lot. You have keys for the Jeep? You can drive it down to Craig and bring him back."

"If that's where they take him. But I could drive to Denver too."

"Yup. Better get moving."

"How will I know which place I'm goin'?"

"I'll meet you at the school and tell you. Hell, if I get permission to go to the hospital myself, I'll escort you."

Ken wasn't sure which was more shocking: the offer or the swearing.

* * *

Harrison was sure his ears were never going to be the same after the helicopter ride. Even now, a full hour or more after arriving at the hospital, he could still hear the drone of the motor and the chop of the rotor blades.

He lay in his cubicle in the emergency room feeling curiously blank and clean, and not just because of the thorough blanket bath he'd received and the worn but sterile nightgown that he wore. It was as though the flames that had barely spared him when he fled the burning house on the mountain had eaten away all sorts of doubts and regrets. His only thought now was to go home and end the charade that the man with whom he lived was just a friend.

He wondered whether Ken knew where he was.

"How's the pain? Are you breathing easier?" Dr. Yanez had pushed aside the curtain over the doorway. She had a clipboard in one hand and looked harassed: Sergeant Curtis' skull fracture was no doubt far from the only thing that needed attention in the Memorial Hospital emergency room.

"Both much better, thank you."

"Well, there's someone here to see you." She held the curtain back, and Ken came in.

He was carrying Harrison's navy blue overnight bag, which bulged strangely, as though all sorts of things had been crammed into it willy-nilly. His dark red hair seemed to glow in the soft lights of the little cubicle, and in his leather jacket, blue denims, and work boots, he seemed too big and too alive for the tiny space. "Hey," he said, and he looked worried and shy and pleased to see Harrison alive, all at the same time. "They say you broke into a burning house to make that call. That creep Benjy set his drug lab on fire and ran off, and you broke in."

Harrison sat up and swung his feet off the bed, but as he stood up, he was struck by a wave of dizziness and had to clutch the bedrail.

Ken dropped the bag and lunged for him. "Hey, get your ass back in that bed, will ya?"

"I want to hold you," whispered Harrison, blinking his eyes against the black spots that seemed to be forming in his field of vision.

"Bet I can manage that. Just sit still a sec and let me figure this bed out. Huh. Let go of the rail, OK?" Harrison put his hands on the mattress on either side of his legs, carefully, while Ken fiddled with the bedrail for a second. Suddenly it was sinking down, out of the way. "There we go."

He eased one arm around Harrison's shoulders. "Just get your legs back up there — yeah, lean on my arm." Harrison managed to swing his legs up, and Ken was lowering him back to the mattress. As he bent over Harrison, he put his other arm around him too and nuzzled gently at his neck. He smelled wonderful, of sun, leather, outdoor air, just a hint of gasoline, and a touch of his own musky sweat. Harrison threw his arms around him. "Ken," he murmured, and even to his own ears, he sounded desperate.

Ken chuckled, and Harrison felt it all through his chest where their bodies were pressed together. "I'm here, buddy. They can't make me go anywhere."

"How did you know where I was?"

"Garza told me. Hell, was I ever wrong about him. He let me drive th' Jeep behind him, 75 miles per all the way down from Jezreel, siren screamin'. It was totally unreal."

"That sounds very … dangerous?"

"Nah, it ain't that fast: folks pass ya on the highway goin' that all the time. And you can bet people got the hell out of the way."

"Don't drive me back at that speed."

"Nope. Gonna treat you like a carton full of eggs."

"When?"

"Tomorrow, doc said. Man, has she got a great rack."

"Kenton!"

"What? I got eyes, Hal. But she's your doc. I ain't gonna mess with her."

Harrrison was silent a moment. But he knew what Ken was. It really didn't change any of the things he had felt before Ken walked into the little cubicle. "I want to go home. I want … ."

"Yeah?"

"I just want to be home. With you."

He had steeled himself a little, expecting Ken to pull away from something that close to a declaration of … Harrison didn't dare say it, even to himself, not yet. Ken just snuggled closer, although it must have been hellishly hard without putting any more weight on Harrison's chest. "You and me both, Hal."

"Um, should I come back?"

It was the tall nurse who'd brought him his pain medication earlier. She looked uncomfortable. Harrison was sorry she felt that way, but he had had a trying day and needed what he had been receiving. Still, Ken straightened up, until just one hand was resting on Harrison's arm, above the bandages around his wrist. "What's up, babe?" he asked, pleasantly.

"We were going to move … Mr. Chant to a room. The doctor would like to keep him overnight for observation because of his concussion."

"I wanna stay with him," said Ken, firmly. "I can sleep in a chair. I'm flexible like that."

The young woman blinked and blushed, the flush visible even on her dark cheeks. Harrison could imagine what sort of look Ken was giving her, even though all that was visible was the back of his head. "N-no problem. It's usually a family member but … ."

"He's all I have in that department," said Harrison, calmly.

"We have chairs that fold out into beds," she said, firmly returning the conversation to information in which she had confidence. "A medical transport technician will be here in a moment."

Once they were alone again, they turned their heads as one to stare at each other. "Did you really just say what I think you said?" asked Ken.

Harrison's cheeks felt rather warm, rather like the nurse's must have, he thought. "Well, yes. But you wanted to stay with me, so … ."

"Yeah," said Ken, quietly. He sank into the straight chair beside the bed and leaned his forehead against the mattress. Harrison rested his hand on the back of Ken's head, threading his fingers into the long, windblown hair, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Early the next afternoon, they turned onto Route 44A and drove the half mile to where it joined the Elk River road. The river valley opened before them and there was Jezreel, its scatter of houses and other buildings flung carelessly up the cluster of little hills that eventually grew to be majestic Copper Ridge a mile and a half to the east. The Peace Church steeple shone in the sunlight, and the dusty sign proclaimed _Welcome to Jezreel! Population 487_. Ken had passed exactly the same spot yesterday on the way back from Milne without even thinking about it. Now, he was taking Hal home again, and the sight was like a big, comforting hug.

He skipped the turn onto Main and came up the back way, by Valley View. Left on the top end of Main, right on Pine, and there they were. Hal sighed.

"You tired, buddy? How's your head?"

"It's not bad. I'm just glad to be home."

"You and me both." Ken parked the Jeep in their little gravel driveway and got out, reaching into the back for the bag. He heard Hal open the door on the passenger side and step down. "Hey, wait! I was gonna give you a hand."

"That's all right. I'm just a little tired, Ken."

"Well, take it slow, man. You were in a car wreck yesterday." Ken locked up the Jeep and went to open the door. Hal followed slowly behind him, drifting toward the bedroom. "You gonna take a nap?"

"Yes, I think so. There's still half a cold chicken in the refrigerator for dinner, and some salad greens."

"Yeah, and I know how to boil noodles. Stop worryin' and go to bed. When's your next pill due?"

"Suppertime is soon enough," Hal smiled, dark circles under his eyes despite what had seemed to be a solid night's sleep in the hospital. He went into the bedroom and shut the door.

Ken put the bag down by the folding doors that hid the washer and dryer and stood indecisively in the kitchen for a moment. Bellcove had given him the day off—with pay—which had never happened. "I know how it was when my wife had surgery last year," the old man had said, on the phone last evening, and Ken had been twitching away from thinking about that remark ever since.

Finally, he rummaged under the sofa cushions and came up with the half-full pack of cigarettes he'd stashed there months ago and went out to the front porch to smoke one and think.

It was two weeks until Halloween. The last of the cottonwood leaves were coming down. Their neighbors' houses looked snug and tidy. There was nothing to tell theirs apart from the others except things that didn't matter, like exactly which window was where. No one ever threw beer bottles at their Jeep, or burned crosses on their scrubby little front lawn. They were just Hal and Ken, living together. "Your buddy," people said, or "Your room mate." He flirted with the waitresses at the Riverview Cafe down at Main and First, and people just said _there's Ken, shootin' the bull again_. No one ever asked why he never asked either of them out, even Jessica with the butt you could bounce quarters off of.

Ellen DeGeneres came out on TV, and no one in town talked about what a pervert she was, just little remarks about how some guy was such a stud that he'd turn her straight. But that guy was never Ken, and no one seemed to care. And shit, Reverend Sanders ran the only church in town. No hellfire for fags in Jezreel.

All his life, he'd been dodging and weaving, waiting for the next blow to hit: his folks dying, his stepmother beating the shit out of him, his brother disappearing, Benjy leaving him in the lurch. Now the way in front of him seemed open and clear, and yet somehow he was still holding back. All he needed to do was take that first step.

_What are you waiting for, Kenton Tanner? The second coming?_

He snuffed out his cigarette and buried the butt in the dirt below the edge of the porch. Then he went inside, washed his hands thoroughly, and laid out a set of poker hands on the table, keeping himself busy quietly until Hal woke up.

At last, the bedroom door opened, and then the bathroom door opened and shut. The toilet flushed; water ran in the sink. Ken gathered his cards up and stowed them in their well-worn box. Hal appeared at the entryway to the back hall, his thick, dark hair tousled and his eyes heavy and sleepy in his pretty face. He wore an old tee and a pair of flannel pajama pants, and he was the sexiest thing Ken had ever seen. "Hey, baby. Goin' back to bed?"

Those green eyes focused, and Hal licked his lips, like they were dry all the sudden. He took a deep breath. "Not by myself."

Ken felt a sudden glow in his chest, like his heart was too big for the space. He grinned. "Guess I need t' come tuck you in, huh?"

A slow smile blossomed on Hal's face, and his pale cheeks flushed. "Please," he said.

### Coda

Pastor Corey Sanders raised his eyebrows at the front page of his morning paper. He scanned the article through to the end and almost smiled. "Huh," he said, to his empty kitchen, then glanced at the clock and swallowed the last of his coffee. It was time to go: he had an appointment at 10:00 a.m. at the church. He folded the paper and tucked it into his briefcase, then shrugged on his jacket and walked the few hundred feet up Second Street to Peace Church.

The doors were decorated with wreaths of white lilies, red roses, and green vine leaves, and the guests were already filing in. Corey went around the back and made his entrance through the tiny vestry. Lauren Garza was playing solemn but joyful hymns on the little organ that they'd scrounged two years ago and refurbished, and the morning light was glowing through the beautiful round window that Gil had designed, made, and installed above the cross behind the dais: the dove with the olive branch in its beak, and the rainbow shining behind it.

Corey took the lectern, and Lauren wrapped up the current hymn and played a soft little bridge. The attendees found their seats and quieted down. The organ switched suddenly to a sprightly classical piece that Harrison had picked out: Vivaldi, Corey thought. In strolled Harrison and Kenton, arm in arm, Harrison smiling gently and Kenton with a cheeky grin, as though he were carrying out a dare. Harrison wore a dark business suit with an expensive-looking green tie and a red rose boutonniere, and his thick dark hair, with a few recent threads of grey at the temples, was already rising up after what must have been a ferocious session of combing. Kenton's long mop had been shorn a couple of years ago, but the resulting crop was still a defiant red. He was wearing a new black leather jacket, a fiercely white t-shirt stamped with a red knotwork heart wreathed with a green ivy vine, black jeans, a silver-studded black leather belt, and gleaming black boots.

They stood before Corey, and he opened his prayerbook and began to read: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the presence of God to witness the exchanging of vows that will bind this couple together … ."

Two hours later, the wedding luncheon party in Harrison and Kenton's backyard was settling down from its raucous beginnings into a cheery murmur as those who had other obligations that afternoon took their leave. "Oh, hello," muttered Gil, stiffening suddenly, and Corey looked up from the remains of his pulled pork to see Rob Schultz, a Bellcove electrician who hadn't been thrilled with Kenton's coming out, arriving with his wife. But they carried a large box wrapped in silver paper and white ribbon, and Harrison, smiling, was drawing Kenton forward to greet them. Schultz shook Kenton's hand without hesitation, and though both men looked rather red about the ears, it was clear that good will had been re-established. "That went good," said Gil, and bounced to his feet to get more cake.

" _Well_ , not good," corrected Corey, to his retreating back, watching more guests come up to greet Schultz. Two men got married, and the naysayers finally realized that the world kept right on turning. One less load for Corey to shoulder, thank God. When he had been young, he'd wanted to set the world on fire in the name of justice. Nowadays, he had to admit that his foster father had been right: prejudice would die one person at a time, neighbor by neighbor, colleague by colleague, as people got to really know those who weren't exactly like themselves.

Gil returned with a second huge piece of cake on his plate and the newlyweds in his wake, and all three of them sat down at Corey's table. "Well, we survived," said Kenton, cheerfully, and threw one arm around Harrison's shoulders. Harrison turned his head, suddenly, and they followed his gaze to see Captain Garza deep in conversation with Dr. Yanez, who had her arm around Lieutenant Curtis' waist.

"They oughta just make it legal, already," said Kenton, with all the portentousness of a man who'd been married at least a dozen years.

"In that case, who would be marrying whom?" murmured Harrison, and Kenton laughed.

"How about you, Reverend Sanders? When are you gonna make an honest man outta your little monkey here?"

"For the fifty bazillionth time, I'm not a monkey," said Gil, and blew Kenton a raspberry. At least he'd swallowed his cake first. Across the yard, Lauren began banging her fork on her beer bottle. Most of the guests followed suit, making a terrible ruckus until Harrison and Kenton kissed. Under cover of the distraction, Corey pulled the newspaper out of the briefcase he'd stashed beneath the table.

"The answer to your question," he said to Kenton, when the uproar died down, "is, 'all in good time.'"

He tossed the newspaper onto the table in front of the happy couple. _Study Shows 61% of CO Voters Favor Gay Marriage_ trumpeted the headline.

"Oh, my," said Harrison.

"Told ya we should have waited for the real thing, 'stead of this civil union business," said Kenton, gloomily.

"I think we waited quite long enough, thank you," said Harrison. "What do you think, Corey?"

"I think maybe I'll see you again this time next year," said Corey, and smirked.

 


End file.
